


I'll be your whatever you want

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Awesome Crowley, Bottom Castiel, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley and Feelings, Crowley in chains, Dirty Talk, Dom Crowley, Guilty Castiel, Hurt Crowley, I have no idea how this will turn out I'm basically writing it because I'm traumatised, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Episode: s11e14 The Vessel, Season/Series 11, Spoilers, Top Crowley, True Forms, Wing Kink, Winged Castiel, very slight Crowley/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Lucifer has Crowley chained up in a kennel. How long do you think a demon of Crowley's charm, cunning and resilience will stay trapped there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm just super irate about Crowley's treatment in The Vessel and I want to avenge him so I'm gonna write him escaping and kicking archangel arse and then getting it on with Cas because this is fanfiction and it's cheaper than therapy..!

Charisma, it turns out, is the one thing Lucifer hasn't factored into his takeover. Even knowing what he knows, he's full of himself enough to underestimate his opponent. But then, angels always _were_ so brimming with hubris, weren't they?  
_Doggy_ , he said? Crowley, crouched in his kennel, whimpers dutifully around his gag. The minion guarding him glances, pretending she doesn't. Crowley butts his head pathetically against the bars, whines more insistently, and she shifts from foot to court-shoed foot, almost palpably wanting to turn and look. Crowley treats her to a moan; dejected, defeated. Broken. When she turns her head, he switches on the full beam of wounded, golden, puppy eyes and sees her resolve wither. All it would take would be- " _What_?" She hisses testily as she reaches through the bars and pulls the gag from his mouth. Crowley gulps in a gasp of air, freed mouth spit-wet and he knows he looks like he could just _kiss her_ , and he knows, battered and dishevelled as he is, exactly how _that_ looks. She narrows her eyes, pretends disdain. But he _knows_. This one _likes_ him.  
"Thank you." His voice is cracked, gravelly, still dignified. Her eyes flick down to his chains. "Sylvia."  
She startles at the sound of her name in that ragged voice. Of course he bothers to learn the names of all of his subjects; he just doesn't often choose to use them. Until it's useful.  
"Stop talking. I'm not supposed to take the gag out."  
He lowers his voice, some of the old purr returning. "Then I am exceptionally grateful that you did."  
Her eyes dart, wary. _He's grateful_. He can see the old feudalism at war with her new allegiance, to a disinterested despot who won't even give her orders.  
"I might not be Lucifer but I'm still in charge of you, so pipe down."  
Crowley ducks his head deferentially. "I'm glad it's you in charge now." That look, up through his eyelashes. When Lucifer touches him, he shrinks away. Cringes and grovels, because that's what Lucifer likes and Crowley is adept at performing in the manner which will garner him the best results, even if that means debasing himself to do it. Sylvia though - she requires a different fantasy. She wants him playing like he's at her mercy and doesn't quite hate it.  
" _What_?" Suspicious: sensible.  
Crowley's voice is soft. Matter of fact. "You're prettier than he is."  
"I know what you're doing." Sylvia tries to turn her back on him but can't quite manage. Her fingers toy with the gag she's still holding. Still damp from his tongue. "And you can stop it. My lord Lucifer will punish you for this."  
"What I'm doing? I've literally nothing left to lose, love, so I may as well speak my mind."  
She looks unsure at that. Lifts her chin. "Well, you're lying anyway. He's gorgeous."  
Crowley stares, spotting an in. "Hmph. Attractive enough vessel perhaps, with someone else at the helm. Although I find it a little _obvious_. I have more refined tastes. And besides - angels, _ugh_ \- wouldn't fancy picking arse feathers out of my teeth for the next week."  
A quiet giggle escapes her at that, and she looks round, guilty. Maybe a touch angry at herself. Crowley tilts his head, spiked collar clinking. Gazes up at her imploringly. "He doesn't appreciate you, Sylvia. Not like I did."  
" _You_ did?"  
"I did." _Earnest. Sincere._ "You caught my eye. I don't mean like..." He trails off. Hot glance, fleeting and lingering all at once. "Well, not _just_ like that. You were peppy. Showed promise. I don't bother to remember names unless I intend to have them engraved on office doors..." There. The proof. He's not sure which part made her eyes widen so covetously and he doesn't much care: she's hooked. Now time to reel her in. "It can still happen."  
"I can't." Not stupid, this one.  
"You can. I can take him. He's strong, oh yes, but he's proud. It's his blind spot. He thinks he's already won and it makes him sloppy. Even if I fail, you won't get caught."  
"How can you know that?"  
"Because you don't even have to take off these bracelets of mine."  
She catches on quickly, does this one. Glances around for spies, although at this point they both know if Lucifer's got wind of their little chat even thus far, she's toast. Better now to pitch in with the ex-king, really. She nods, eyes on his expression. Crowley's tongue darts out, swipes his upper lip.  
"We have a deal, then. We should seal it."  
"Sir..?" She flinches as she speaks; it just slipped out through habit.  
"That's Crowley, to you, love."  
That pleases her, though. She kneels next to the cage, fingers hooked through the bars - she really did choose a pretty vessel, all curves and smooth dark skin - leaning closer. The angle is atrocious, metal bracketing their faces giving a sharp tang on the inhale, but her lips taste like triumph and he makes sure to slip her a bit of tongue as a reward. Pulling back, she looks dizzy. Suggestible. Nice, but he needs her to focus.  
"You have your blade?"  
"It won't scratch those bonds. They're too powerful."  
"I have a way. I can't do it, Heaven's reject hobbled me. But you can."  
"What do I do?"  
"Repeat after me. Dalagare ol alonusahi. Conisa ol micaelazodo. One stroke through just one line of each ward. Collar, shackles. Can you do that for me, Sylvia?"  
"Yes."  
The blade scrapes metal like it's cutting to the bone, setting Crowley's teeth singing. She murmurs the incantation, word perfect.  
"Clever girl."  
"Woman."  
"Brilliant, fascinating woman." Her smile is poorly stifled as he butts his head against her knife-hand, mouths a kiss to her palm. "There's just one more thing."  
"What..?"  
"He marked me. My vessel. You'll have to destroy the ward."  
"How?" She's apprehensive. He sees it in her eyes. She likes this vessel, his body. His hand - the shackles feel so much lighter now - closes around her wrist, thumb stroking gently.  
"Just one more little cut. You'll be gentle with me, won't you?" Sylvia swallows, thickly. Nods. "Good. Never thought I'd say it, but I'm a little weary of the rough stuff." He manages a lopsided smile. "You'll have to... lift my shirt... Yes."  
Her tender little wince and hiss of breath makes Crowley wonder which candy-ass DVLA queue of a branch of Hell she was raised in, but he pushes the thought aside in favour of arching into her touch, playing up to it. She pulls the fugly abomination Lucifer decked him out in up higher than is strictly necessary, her gaze roaming his bare chest. He catches his lower lip between his teeth as her fingers trace the weeping gouges carved there, slicing the bright riot of his tattoos, and gives her the brave eyes. "You're going to have to give it to me deep, Sylvia." _Too much?_ His voice breaks on her name. Her hand shakes as she angles the blade. It's the best pain he's ever felt. "My gratitude." Breathless now, the weight of cursed bondage lifted. "Your loyalty will not go unrewarded, darling." And Crowley opens his vessel’s mouth wide, and he rushes out, a boiling red storm, between the bars.


	2. Chapter 2

His first instinct is to flee.

He swirls around the vaulted ceiling of the throne room, fighting to calm panicked thoughts. This building is locked down tight: nobody is getting in or out without Lucifer’s knowledge; there’ll be no skipping out and buying time in a new vessel, no matter how quickly he might find and ward one. Lucifer is smart. He’d find him. He’d _know_ … The doors clang open, untouched. Hell’s new monarch, cocksure stride and twisted smile. Crowley seeps into the cracks in the ceiling, insinuates himself into each tiny cranny of moulding, watching. Lucifer halts before the kennel, hands in pockets, and raises his chin. “Hmm.” Behind the bars, Crowley’s vessel lies curled, dead-still. Empty. Can he tell? Crowley’s essence fluctuates anxiously against the dirty brickwork: if he had breath, he would hold it. Lucifer looks around. Oh, he can sense something amiss. But perhaps he doesn’t realise what it is. Opposite the kennel, Sylvia, baller that she is, is slowly edging towards the door. Lucifer ducks to peek into the enclosure. “Did I tire my favourite pet out? Wake up, sleepyhead!” He aims a kick at the bars. A jarring clang. Crowley’s vessel does not budge. “You.” Sylvia freezes as Lucifer throws out an arm, his pointing finger pinioning her as effectively as any weapon, without him even having to look and check where she is.

“Sire?”

“Do we have a… _situation_ , here?”

“I’m not sure, sire.” Her voice retains a stability that impresses Crowley no end: if in the unlikely event either of them survive this ordeal, he really will promote her right up the ladder. “He’s been like that for a while now. Sort of… catatonic. I think you broke him.”

Lucifer looks briefly like he’s going to take issue with not being informed sooner about this development, but her final assertion has him smiling. Crowley’s essence shivers, in anger as much as unwanted recollection. “I think I did.” Lucifer covers his mouth with one hand in mock-surprise. “Oops.” Did Crowley imagine it or did her expression almost imperceptibly harden at that? Well, at least one demon aside from his esteemed self has the sense to remember just how beneath contempt Heaven’s fallen views Hell’s finest to be. An archangel on the throne of Hell: there’s a true atrocity. The red smoke in the rafters swells and churns, wanting justice. If only he’d just – “Leave us.” Lucifer waves an elegant, dismissive hand and Crowley ripples, pleased. Sylvia doesn’t bother to restrain her pace as she scurries out through the double doors. Flattening, momentarily calm, Crowley watches Lucifer takes a step toward the kennel. Now or never: surprise is the only element Crowley has, and he’s about to lose even that.

The roar is incendiary, like the music of a church going up in flames, as Crowley erupts, rushing him without finesse, just a desperate charge to gain ingress any way possible before his enemy has the presence of mind to defend. Of course, defence is the last thing on Lucifer’s mind: he doesn’t need to defend when he can go straight to counterattack. He throws back his head and laughs, his wide-open mouth taunting, even more of a mockery than the ease with which he gathers what should be insubstantial in one hand, holding Crowley writhing like an eel. “Why am I not surprised?” He shakes his head and tuts as the rope of red smoke twists viciously in his grasp. “Well, points to you for trying, slugger. Shame you’ll just never be _quite_ good enough. Now.” He turns towards the vacant vessel lying slumped behind the bars, “I think doggy needs a little more obedience training. Back on the leash you go.”  
Crowley howls, a soundless noise of rage that sends every candle in the room guttering wildly. The archangel’s grasp on him is just too formidable: no demon could fight it, and whilst Crowley is far from weak, he excels in smarts, not brute strength. But he is _not_ going back in that cage.

_Castiel. Cas. I know you’re still there, angel. I know you can hear me._

“Wait, are you – are you _praying_ demon?” Lucifer’s grip loosens only slightly, his face splitting in an incredulous delighted smile. “Oh, that is so precious! A demon praying for his life. Talk about a Hallmark moment.”

Crowley whips in his fist. Wraps around his neck, only to be willed back again. Lucifer is hesitating now. He’s holding off putting Crowley back in his place, because he wants to be entertained. Because he wants to hear it. Showtime, indeed.

_Cas listen to me. Please. I don’t want to die._

Lucifer perks up at that. _Die_. Like the thought really hadn’t occurred to him; like an eternity of servitude would obviously be worse than death. Perhaps not after all to one so used to suffering. He squeezes the smoke in his grasp and it squeals like a living thing, little tendrils flickering off and drifting to soft dead ash.

_I know we’ve had our differences. Hell, I don’t expect you to step in for me – I wouldn’t if I were you – but give me one word that you can hear this. That I can tell you this while I still have the chance. I… I’m… I don’t completely hate you. Do you understand me, Castiel? Cas, hear my… hear me…_

“This is all very touching, but I’m afraid your prepaid minutes are almost up, buddy.” Lucifer yawns delicately. Checks the nails of his free hand.

_Castiel, hear my prayer. I’m praying, alright? We’ve all ballsed this one up, big time. I guess the curtain’s coming down. I just want you to know, you were a worthy opponent. The worthiest. You drove me crazy. I’ll miss you. I… forgive me. Castiel, angel, I… damn it. I… Cas-_

“OK, enough.” Lucifer raises his hand, smoke haemorrhaging from his grasp. “I think – yeah, I’m definitely going to kill you now.”

“ _No_.”

_Cas?_

The face before him: identical and utterly changed. Eyes suddenly wide and mouth slack and panting with effort. The grip on Crowley’s essence loosens; he twists and churns, trying to throw himself out of the psychic clutch of fingers. “There’s not much time. He’s strong.”

_Fight him! Cast him out!_

“I can’t.” Sweat is beading along the hairline of that overburdened vessel. “He’s too strong. He’s the only one powerful enough to defeat The Darkness.”

_How much have you seen from in there? He can’t defeat her. He’s alone. There may be only one thing we have that he doesn’t, but it’s the biggest bloody piece of the puzzle._

Castiel mouths something, silent, that Crowley can barely make out but thinks he sees. One word. The crucial one. His hands are shaking with the effort of holding an archangel at bay.

“Even if I were strong enough to cast him out, we would have no means of defeating Amara.”

_We cast him out together. We defeat Amara together._

“Crowley, go. I can’t fight him much longer.”

_Then he’ll kill me._

Castiel’s eyebrows draw together, frantic and faltering. “ _Go_!”

_I won’t leave you with him._

The final bonds of will fall away and Crowley billows out of heaven’s grip. Castiel’s eyes are pleading. Crowley folds, regroups, and assails: a determined red surge down the throat of the angel’s vessel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bearing in mind I've not yet seen 11x15, I wrote more overwrought melodrama whilst I should be working :p
> 
> You can guess what Crowley can't say, and what Cas mouths.
> 
> Trying to decide if it would be cheap at this point to put a ton of explicit filth in the final chapter because um I like explicit filth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I just skived a day's work and wrote this instead because I watched Beyond the Mat last night and couldn't contain my feels.

Quiet.

That kind of pre-storm quiet that cannot last long. Crowley looks around hastily. It’s not a park; bigger. Woodland. Saturated and lush, dew-soaked, the overhanging trees shading a spring sun on the cusp of summer heat. Insects hang droning in the ripe air. Birds trill, unseen in the canopy of green overhead and a few feet away from him a wide stream rushes, callously cheerful over a rainbow of water-worn stone. Crowley glances down: at least his subconscious has dressed him in his own clothes again. There’s someone else too. A figure, sitting on a fallen tree next to the stream, back to Crowley and dark head bent. “Hello, darling. Nice mental prison you got here.”

“It is not a prison if it comes by choice.”

It’s strange to hear his voice again, after so long taking orders in Lucifer’s voice from those same lips… Castiel looks up as Crowley sits next to him. Brushes a frosting of dry lichen from his suit pants as he gets comfortable. “It’s always a prison if you’re not able to decide when you leave. So if you assert that this isn’t a prison, well.” Raising an eyebrow, Crowley turns to him. “Does that mean you’re ready to take the wheel again?”

“You are a fool.”

“Ouch. Not the reception I was expecting.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow and Crowley feels a jolt of something familiar inside. Probably irritation. Maybe hatred. Possibly gas. “What were you hoping for? Confetti?”

“I love it when you tease, sugar.” The stream twinkles on, oblivious. Crowley scans the area. Too quiet. Time feels too _finite_.

“Crowley.” He sounds so tired. “Whose side are you even on?”

“I'll tell you whose side I'm on, sweetheart. The winning side. And if that so happens to be _my_ side then all the better.”

“And who might ‘your side’ be?”

“That would be… me.”

Castiel gives a little humourless laugh. “If I am not powerful enough to expel him, you are certainly not.”

“Ever hear of a little thing called ‘teamwork’? You really should try it, looks great on the old C.V.”

Baleful eyes turn on him. Stubborn and full of contempt and… they look duller than Crowley remembers, some light gone from them. He swallows. Castiel says, “What makes you think that I _want_ to cast Lucifer out?”

“Because you’ve seen what he does. Not just to me – I know you couldn’t give a monkey’s left nut about me-” _Could you?_ He searches that impassive face. Imagines, perhaps too fervently, that he sees a flicker there. “But what else has he done, I wonder?”

That gets a rise. Small, but perceptible; Castiel’s lips press together, his eyes still the blank shutters of someone who’s seen too much. Well. Crowley knows what he’s seen. What the vessel his father rebuilt for him has participated in. And now here Crowley sits, whole before him – in image at least. Crowley tilts his head. Watches. Castiel says, “Sam…”

“What about Moose?” That came out a little too sharply.

Castiel repeats, “Sam.” His eyes widen, focusing on a point beyond Crowley’s shoulder.

“Hello, boys.”

“Always with the stealing my lines.” Crowley turns. White-suited, immaculate, smirking. Sam’s face. Lucifer’s voice. That same ever voice, somehow, no matter who the vessel. “Interesting.” Crowley’s guts ice, every ounce of him running cold with dread. He keeps his voice level, conversational. “This what you’ve been tête-à-tête-ing with this whole time, feathers? Lucky you. He looks yummy in Winchester.”

“I haven’t…” Crowley can practically hear those imaginary teeth grind. Thinks, _why am I still alive?_

“Don’t tell me that he’s not even been speaking to you? After the big fat favour you did him?”

Lucifer halts, looking between them lazily. “Cas knows I’ve been busy. Don’t you Cas?” Silence. Breeze through branches. “Don’t you? Yo, baby bro. It’s _impolite_ to ignore someone who’s speaking to you.”

“Lucifer.” The muscles in Castiel’s jaw flicker.

The figure in white takes a step forward, clapping his hands slowly. “Quick on the uptake, isn’t he?”

“How dare you take this form.” Castiel stands, turns and Crowley follows suit, inching slightly behind him. Lucifer smirks, leans his head to one side, arms crossed.

“But this is my destined vessel. What other form would you have me take? I mean, you-” He indicates Castiel in a sweeping gesture. “Imagine if we’d turned up wearing the same outfit – _awkward_.”

“You tried to kill Sam.” Castiel says. Crowley’s eyes widen at that, then narrow, processing. An attempt on Sam Winchester’s life; far more serious an affront to this angel than Lucifer threatening to kill Crowley.

“Well, I don’t really _need_ him anymore, that’s true. But just call me sentimental. Anyhoo.” The breeze in the branches picks up. The stream seems to be getting louder. Lucifer cranes his neck, peering around Castiel. “Enough chit chat. Did I tell you that you could have friends over?”

“Cas, cast him out!” Crowley’s shout is cut short by the blast to his chest that sends him sprawling over the fallen tree. He scrambles in the mild dirt, smelling rich sweet soil and smoke and burning, _burning_ … he peers over the inadequate wooden barricade. The forest is blazing, even the wet grass is alight, wind whipped up into a howling beast, the stream at his back sending off clouds of steam as it boils. Lucifer’s eyes are calm in his madness. His hand around Castiel’s throat is steady. And Castiel is motionless, not even struggling, regarding him with an accepting gaze that looks almost loving. “He can’t kill you, he needs your vessel. Fight!” Crowley ducks down again the second he’s yelled it over the storm.

Lucifer’s voice carries, even though he’s speaking normally. “Oh, but I sure can kill you, little doggy. You’ve been snapping at my ankles for too long now. I think it’s time I put you down.” Louder even than the storm is the thudding of Crowley’s imaginary pulse in his imaginary ears and if he had a moment to spare for puzzling out that trick of presentation then this is not the moment to choose. The wind whips at his hair, sending leaves and bits of debris pelting at his face as he crawls around the log. He doubts he could stand against that tumult even if he wanted to. Poking his head around the edge of the tree, he sees Lucifer fling Castiel like a rag doll, sprawling to the ground. Lucifer, the eye of the storm, his hair barely ruffled by it. Calm. Insane. Crowley can almost identify with him. “Where are you?” Lucifer whistles sharply. He pats his thighs, how Crowley would summon his hounds. Crowley crawls against the storm. “Oh, _there_ you are. Castiel, take notes. It might not be the most humane way to do it but – ah, what the heck.”

Maybe it’s the sped-up violence of the storm, or maybe it’s his life flashing before his eyes – again – but time seems to slow, then. Crowley lifts his head, eyes slitted against the howling wind and sees, a few metres from him, Cas lift his head, their eyes meeting.

 _Castiel, can you still hear me?_ Something flashes liquid in Cas’s eyes, an echo of his old self. _Time ran out. I forgive you._

There’s a sound like thunder, but too close, ground-zero. Crowley tenses, drawing his limbs in and covering his head with his arms on instinct. Something is raining down on him, pattering. He hazards a peek: earth is pelting from the sky, as if the very fabric of this illusion is unravelling. In the midst of it, Castiel and Lucifer stand, face to face. The debris circles them like a tornado, spinning at an increasing pace that makes Crowley want to hang onto the ground. Everything feels like it’s slipping, sliding from the map, from the very face of reality. Lucifer’s back is half turned towards him, but Castiel’s eyes are glowing, not blue but white-hot, making Crowley squint. A Mexican stand-off while the world ends. Perfect. Crowley tries to push himself to his hands and knees, but the pressure holding him down is just too much. He tries to call out, but the wind steals his words before they’re even fully out. He tries once more. “Hey. Lucifer.” _Louder_. He tries again, voice rising against probability over the tumult. “ _Oi, Lucy_.” Towering above him, Lucifer’s head turns. Castiel’s hands raise, eyes raging brighter. “Your slip’s showing.”

A searing flash of light so white it burns violet cuts into Crowley’s vision. In his last second of consciousness, he wonders, quite lucid, what Heaven is like.

 

“Crowley.” Castiel's first gasped word. He’s lying with his back propped against one wall of the throne room, his chest heaving.

Crowley sags, slumping to the stone floor of the kennel, unsure whether the homing instinct he has for this meatsuit is comforting or alarming. The collar around his neck feels somehow heavier now: he presses a palm against it, feels the lock spring open. Clenching his teeth, he tears it free and throws it clattering against the bars at his feet. Shackles next. Palm to the barred door and it clangs open with such force it nearly bounces shut again. He stops it with a gesture, anger giving him new energy. He stretches his legs, still in their hateful beige chinos. Looks at the angel.

“Where is he?”

“Gone.” Castiel sounds barely able to form sentences, let alone be useful.

“Where?”

“Banished. Back to his vessel. Back to the cage?”

There’s a terrible taste in Crowley’s mouth. Like iron. He clicks his fingers, smooths his hands through his newly-clean hair, pats down his suit. Better. So much better: he squares his shoulders. And if he’s able to do that, then Lucifer must indeed be… gone. “We need to make sure. Now.”

“Crowley, I…”  
Crowley turns, sharply. Castiel is still sat there, slumped. Drained. Crowley regards him, down his nose. “Save it.”

“But you said-” His eyes widen, just a little.

“No words are enough this time.” Crowley says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just porn but hey I wanted to give them (I'm not gonna lie; mainly Crowley) something nice after all the crap they've had this season.

"You _apologise_?" Crowley bites back a laugh of genuine surprise, honest derision. "You're offering me an _apology_?"  
The angel standing before him is something like back up to full faculties, but still stiff as ever, any sorrow cold on his lips. It’s been a week. Crowley has cleaned up the mess in Hell, made certain Lucifer is back in the cage, held an awkward pow-wow with the Winchesters. Amara is still at large. And now here Castiel is, in his throne room, demanding atonement. "I wish to make amends. I know that Lucifer treated you-"  
Crowley holds up a hand, _quiet_. Glancing at the demons flanking the doors, he clicks his fingers, gratified when they cringe. But he's not punishing, he's just shooing - he emphasises with a flick of his fingers and they get the memo and kowtow out. Crowley gestures the doors shut with a boom, lounging on his reclaimed throne.  
Castiel says, "They are afraid of you."  
"Damn skippy, they are."  
"It is not the same as respect."  
Crowley snorts, an ugly noise. "I don't need them to ask me to the prom, Oprah, I want them to do as they're frigging told: I'm king, not president; popularity doesn’t even make my top ten."  
"If you wish to retain their loyalty you need them to love you."  
"Hrmm. I'll bear that in mind.” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Learnt that from a plucky little squirrel, did we? How's that strategy working out for your dear old dad, by the way?"  
Castiel bristles. Crowley smiles. He's sort of hoping this will end in a fight: he fancies taking his anger out on an angel he's more fairly matched with strength-wise than the arch-horror banged up back downstairs, especially the one who wears the face of his erstwhile tormentor. But it's _not_ Lucifer. Not any longer, and that's crystal. That vessel's face could be a different person with Castiel in charge. It's... unsettling. Crowley tilts his chin up, eyes hooded. "You were saying about making amends?”  
The angel's mouth is set grimly, but his eyes are haunted. "I was mistaken in my intentions. It caused you suffering. I wish to atone."  
"You _wish_..?"  
"I -" _need_. It's written clear as tattoos on his face, that pious compulsion. "Yes."  
"And I suppose you've offered this same tempting deal to Andre the Giant, have you?"  
"Sam will not-"  
"Let me guess.” Crowley interrupts, “Moose won't spank it all better, Purgatory is shut, so you thought you'd come begging at my door, hrm?"  
"I am not begging."  
"Well, there's your first mistake."  
Irritation and desperation war behind that dispassionate facade. Castiel draws himself up a little taller. Crowley regards him, biting thoughtfully on the tip of his tongue. "You want me to torture you, Thursday? Have you scrubbing the dungeon floors?"  
"If that will suffice."  
Crowley stares. Still so damned untouchable. Unreachable. "One week."  
"As you wish."  
Tilting his head, Crowley taps a finger against his lips. Then he braces both hands on the arms of his throne and rises smoothly to saunter over to where Castiel stands.  
"A caged bird in private should amend for my being made a caged dog in public. Don't you think?"  
Castiel's jaw clenches, muscles bunching. His eyes flash warning as Crowley paces a circle around him. But he won't say no. He raises his chin.  
"Very well."  
“So haughty.” Crowley leans in a little, but Castiel does not shrink away. “We've seen where pride gets us, haven't we. _Haven’t we_?” A stiff nod. Resentment and guilt battling. “Of course, mainly _your_ pride. And Lucifer's. Heaven's collective hubris, what a frigging catastrophe that is - great idea, Einstein, defeat the darkest power in the world by _releasing the only thing under it that's bloody worse!_ Do you want to know what he did to me, Cas? Oh - wait, you _know_ already. _You witnessed and you didn't intervene_.”

“Your life was not in danger!” Real anger, there, a lovely little flare of temper. Crowley raises one finger and Castiel’s mouth snaps obediently, surprisingly, shut.

“You know what the one thing is that I value more than my life? Think, pet. Yours is what led you to drop me in the doo-doo in the first place.”

“I intervened when you-”

“When I _what_?”

Castiel’s voice is quiet. “When you left me no other option.”

“Hmmm. Bleeding not enough to get your attention, pet?”

“I knew you could take it.” Quieter still. A strange little shiver of not-quite-pride runs up Crowley’s spine.

“Is that so. Remember when I asked you to beg me?” He’s still pacing, his voice full of frosty amusement. “You could barely manage a ‘please’. You _thought I could take it_. And what are you prepared to take, I wonder? He wanted me cowed, angel. He would have me a coward. Do you think me a coward, Castiel?”  
“No.”  
“No, _what_?”  
Incredulous, wide eyes. “No... master?”  
Crowley scoffs, but the word knocks him, sudden and sickened inside. “No. _Oh_ , no. I'm not your gutless brother. You call me Crowley, _Angel of the Lord_.”

“Crowley… I…” He lowers his gaze. Looks almost ashamed. “I would have stopped him. I _did_ stop him.”

“From killing me. Is that it? Tell me, angel - how far is too far? Not being chained, caged, publicly degraded, evidently. What about the torture, hmm? Did you watch? _What he did_?” Castiel finally flinches as Crowley’s voice rises, his face too close. “ _My neck beneath his boot heel? My face to the floor? His blade-_ ”

A low hiss: “ _Yes_.”

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice is ragged. “But you didn’t stop him.”

“There were priorities.” Almost a whisper, his gaze averted. Crowley bares his teeth.

“ _Priorities_. Huh. All those terribly creative threats of his - how far is too far? Death – is that it, the one taboo? Would you have watched him take me?” He can’t quite force the word, but Castiel winces anyway, his meaning all too clear. “Would you have _enjoyed_ it? What if it had been one of your Winchesters, would you have stepped in then?”

“No.”

 _No?_ “No to which part?”

“No, I… didn’t like him touching you.” Through gritted teeth. Hateful. Resentful. … _Possessive_?

The tone more than the words are a punch to Crowley’s guts. His voice drops again. “Oh, Castiel. Why can’t I quit you?”  
The frown line that appears between the angel’s fine brows is so beautifully familiar that Crowley feels the impulsive urge to lick it. Castiel says, “Why won't you...” His frown deepens. “I need us to be even. For you to punish me. I need you to be angry with me. Why won't you hate me?”  
Crowley’s voice sticks like burnt sugar. His hand heavy on the back of the angel’s neck. “Why should you get what you want?” he says, and drags him down into a kiss.

He is, as Crowley has enjoyed reminding him, lucky that Crowley is conducting this punishment in the privacy of his chambers and not making an example of him to what remains of his court. He'll dress it up as mercy, but really it's just that Crowley's never liked to share his toys, and this one is inflaming in him a conflagration of covetous voracity.

The candles cast dancing light across the bed hangings and the black suggested edges of furniture; the chamber feels at once limitless and cocooning, its walls lost in shadow, the huge bed at the centre of the room like an island floating in pitch. Castiel materialises on it on his knees, a perplexed frown instantly upon his brow as he wobbles briefly for balance. Crowley regards him, head cocked, from the foot of the bed. He raises his chin as Castiel meets his eye. “Hrmmm. Let's see.”   _Click._ Still kneeling there on the black damask throw, Castiel is abruptly dressed in white silk. A gauzy tunic that just about grazes his knees, his arms bound behind him in intricately wrapped and knotted ropes of baroque pearls. A jaunty little tinsel halo perches, bobbing, on his head.

The angel’s voice is like cracking coals. “This is-”  
Crowley tilts his head the opposite way. “Humiliating, is it?”  
“ _Ridiculous_.” Castiel grits out. “This is merely a vessel. Its appearance does not move me.”  
“Oh, kitten.” Crowley tuts, quietly. “You know and I know that's not true. You've been human in that thing. I know how it feels.” One hand runs, thoughtfully, down one of the bed drapes. “Well, now you look the part, tree-topper – but, wait - it's going to get better.”  
“Do your worst, Crowley.” The angel sounds weary. Almost bored.  

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Do not doubt it.” He can imagine what Castiel is expecting: exactly what was dished out to Crowley, perhaps with a few twists; demon, after all. Crowley’s hand tightens on the bedpost. He places one knee on the bed, hesitates. His voice simmers; low but heated. “Show me your wings.”

“…what?”

It’s the first that Castiel has faltered since he agreed to this; asked for this. Crowley catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Laves his tongue over it. Repeats. “Show me.”

“I…” Is that discomfort? _Fear_?

“You know what to do.” Crowley’s voice is low, but Castiel’s is a whisper.  
“Not this.”  
Crowley shakes his head. “Show me, pretty birdy.” His voice rises, temper flaring. “ _Show me_.”

Tensing against his bindings, that dark head bows. Crowley braces, certain that the angel has reached the end of his patience with this game, that any moment he’ll strain against and snap those flimsy bonds. But all that Castiel does is arch his back, a long shuddering sigh escaping as if pulled from him against his will. Crowley’s eyes widen. _Something_ is happening.

Smoke twists, pale, from where the angel kneels. The choking reek of singeing fabric hits the back of Crowley’s throat: a spreading black bloom climbing the pristine white of the angel’s tunic, fluttering into flame. His halo is the first to go, running like mercury, evaporating to nothing. The ropes of pearls bubble and crack, spit apart in splintered shrapnel as their threads burn through and snap, robes fluttering to ash around Castiel’s thighs: he is naked in white fire; his wings unfurl. Crowley catches his breath.

They’re vast, spanning wider than the width of the massive bed, arching over Castiel’s back - bowed as if in shame - his hands clasped in his lap, head lowered almost to his knees. Red; they’re red: Crowley feels his chest tighten. The plumage is the rust-scarlet of dried blood, darker nearer the shaft and fading off to the tip, saturated and gorgeous and… _broken_. The angel’s shoulders shake. Crowley’s hand leaves the bedpost, reaches out before he realises and halts it, mid-air. He gropes for the bedpost again, reeling. Handfuls of that bloody plumage is missing; the remains look chewed-up, sticking at odd angles, _painful_.

“Castiel.” He doesn’t look up. Crowley’s voice is soft, fascinated: voyeurism and… sympathy. “You should have seen the ruin they made of me. Those first few decades in Hell. The glorious dissolution, flesh and blood, marrow and nerves: slit, peeled, stripped to raw screams…”  He pauses. Pulls in a long breath. “ _Did_ you see, Castiel? From your seat up there on your fluffy white cloud? Did you watch them take me apart?”  
“… _yes_.”  
Crowley’s breath comes in a little involuntary gasp. He wishes he could see Castiel’s face. When he speaks, his voice wavers more than he’d like. “Did you... _like_ it?” Castiel raises his head, then. Dark, doleful eyes. Crowley gazes at him. “Beautiful sadist. Did you not care?”  
“You are an abomination.” Every time he says it he falters more, sounds less convinced.  
“That doesn't answer my question.”  
“They created you.”  
“Yes they did. I thank them. I was forged in Hellfire and it made me unbreakable.”  
There’s something more curious than disdainful in Castiel’s eyes. “And now this is how you would punish me in turn. This is the best you can come up with.”  
“Who's talking about punishment?” Keeping his voice level only with effort, Crowley says, “I'm celebrating still being alive.” From his perch on the bed, Castiel stares. Wets his lips. Crowley swallows, loud in his own ears. “You may go. If you choose to.” His pulse jumps.

“And if I choose to stay?”

“Then you’ll do exactly as I instruct you. Your choice. Always your choice, Castiel.” _And what trouble those choices have landed you in_. The seconds stretch, thrumming. Haltingly, Castiel bows his head and Crowley exhales a held breath. “Beautiful. Beautiful ruin.” His voice skates dangerously close to reverent, but Castiel frowns.  
“It shows I am damaged.”  
And Crowley says, “It shows you've survived.”

He’s never wanted him more. The intensity of it surprises Crowley, as he crawls onto the bed and knee-walks elegantly to where his _guest_ is kneeling. He’d thought he’d feel hatred now for that vessel, but it’s quite the opposite: those eyes that are blinking at him in apprehension mixed with something undisguised, burning, are so very much not Lucifer; he couldn’t confuse them for an instant.  
“Do you like what you see?” The way Castiel is positioned - sitting back on his heels, head down, whilst Crowley kneels up before him - alters their heights so that for once Crowley seems taller. He aims a light slap to one cheek, grips Castiel’s chin and raises it. “Look at me. I said, do you like what you see?”

Gazing up at him, stubborn and gorgeous, his decimated wings flexing. “Yes.” Gritted out. Castiel’s hands are still crossed demurely in his lap, but it’s not enough to hide how he’s half hard.

Crowley smiles. "Would you like to see more?"  
No reply necessary. The flicker of unfamiliar, unexpected lust across those darkening eyes is answer enough. Crowley waves a hand; his garments dissolve like smoke and Castiel's eyes widen. Not for that right reasons.  
"Crowley..."  
Crowley glances down, at the mess captivity made of his favourite vessel’s barrel chest. "Battle scars, darling. They'll fade."  
"That ward will not disappear."  
"And I'll wear it as a badge of honour. What-"  
His lips part in shock as Castiel leans in, his mouth delicate across the healing gashes on Crowley's chest, tongue tip to torn flesh. It’s less sexual than consoling, but Crowley’s still raging hard in seconds, and when teeth scrape one nipple, his cock jerks, flat against his belly, almost too much to bear.  
Crowley groans. One hand to the back of that dark head, his deft fingers twine in tousled hair. “I’m going to take you…” His whisper ghosts across Castiel’s neck and Crowley feels against his lips all the fine hairs there tremble to attention as the angel shivers. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want it?”

His moan shudders like a snare drum roll against Crowley’s skin. Crowley draws back, arm’s length to admire him. Trails the tip of one finger down the slight curve of his waist, over the sharp angle of a hipbone, watching his eyelids flutter half closed, his pale lips part and hips push unconsciously forward. Hard, too, now: rosy and wet and perfectly proportioned; he looks like such a _good boy_ that it makes Crowley’s mouth water. "Aren't you lovely?" _Inexperienced but eager, a bud on the cusp of full bloom._ "You've tasted this. But not to your fill. You want more, don't you?” His thumb traces the crease between hip and thigh and those blue eyes squeeze closed, mouth opening wider. “Oh how I wish I'd been the first to have you. Explore your limits. Teach you. But perhaps there are some ways you're still... untried." His wings are lowered, draped across the bed and they fan out as Crowley guides him onto his back. Red plumage, white skin, lovely against the black damask. Crowley covers him easily, broad and strong. Lips at his throat, too gentle at that hammering pulse, tender and brutal. His cock slides slick and fat in the crease of Castiel’s hip; the angel gasps, pressing up against him and Crowley thrills, every inch of skin buzzing with the static of him, heavenly creature. “Are you, my love? Still that teeny, tiny bit innocent?”

“Vai…” He’s slipping now, words coming shattered in half-dead languages, “ _Yes_.”

Moving lower, Crowley worships: blasphemy. Castiel tastes of fire, streaks of soot painting his pale flesh, licking upwards like flames; Crowley chases them with his tongue, feels him quake. "I think you like this. Being toyed with. Being manhandled.” He mouths across the graceful line of collarbone, light scrape of teeth a wet brand. “Giving up responsibility. Is it a relief? To be delivered from that pesky free-will business for a while? To be arranged to my liking?"

Castiel throws his head back, arching off the bed, throat bared. His legs lift to wrap around Crowley’s hips. “ _Commah ol, od pelapeli zomdu quasahi_... _please... bind me and take your pleasure..._ ”

The engulfing wash of desire sends Crowley dizzy. “Oh, angel. Your wish is my command.”

He nudges Castiel’s thighs apart, spreading him with thumb and fingers to expose him, tight and neat. A blush is spreading across Castiel’s cheekbones, his lips plumping, from shame at being undressed and displayed like this or from something else. Crowley places one finger against him, _there_ , causing a gasp, Cas spreading his legs wider, drawing his knees up in invitation as Crowley rubs in little circles, teasing until he’s open enough for a fingertip to slip inside. Deliberate. Torturous. His angel is panting, pleading without words. Crowley practically tingles with gratification.

“I could will this vessel to open for you.” That, breathless.

Crowley moves his hand away and Castiel all but whines. “No. The old fashioned way will do just fine.” _This isn’t about dominance - not entirely - it’s about pleasure. You submitting to the pleasure that I give you_. The back of his hand caresses one stubbled cheek and Castiel turns his head to mouth at it, planting wet open kisses, until Crowley cradles the side of Castiel’s face in his palm, watching, fascinated. His fingertips brush against lust-pinked lips. “Use your tongue.” Crowley’s voice is as velvet as that mouth that’s now sucking him in shamelessly, tongue working between his fingers, fervent and willing enough that Crowley could almost abandon his plan in favour of – _nope. Next time_. Castiel’s mouth is so wet when he withdraws that Crowley just has to claim it, hungry and sloppy and Castiel gasps into their kiss, whole body stiffening, when Crowley reaches down between his legs again, pressing one spit-dripping finger fully inside. He starts to move, withdrawing and pushing, careful, but Castiel’s vessel, for all its owner’s willingness, is virgin-tight, so he must will some magic to ease the way. It helps. Castiel moans when he feels it, slippery, Crowley easing a second thick finger inside him, just shallow at first, teasing and stroking, and Castiel’s mouth is desperate on his, stealing his breath, hips rocking. His wings fan, huge and beautiful as cathedral ruins. Crowley adds a third finger, second-knuckle deep, scissoring, and Castiel breathes fast and shallow like he’s suffocating.

“Oh-” Fanning a breeze through their hair, those great wings beat against the bed like a dying thing, as with tormenting slowness Crowley slides home. Holds him there, pinned with his hips, filling him to the brim. The corners of Castiel’s eyes are damp, eyes bright with human-looking tears, but his mouth is agape in rapture and when Crowley starts to move the sounds that rip from his throat – from both of them – are guttural, wordless bliss. One hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip. Everything: raw, new. Renewed. He’s losing himself in this body, circling his hips tender but relentless, and deep, deep… balancing on one hand, he raises up, wrapping the other palm around his angel’s soaking hard cock and Castiel murmurs, “Crowley, I felt you.” He lets out a groan, pushing forward into Crowley’s fist, back onto his dick. “Your prayers were guarded at first, I know. A show to goad Lucifer into killing you.” The words tumble out, gasping and rushed. “You had so little hope that I would intervene, but you took the gamble. But when you truly thought you were going to die-”

“Stop talking.” He’s so close, he can barely form the words.  
Castiel bucks into his fist. “You can't hide from me now, Crowley. I know.”  
“You know nothing.”  
“You've proved it. This. All of this.”  
“You stupid, wretched...” He falters as Castiel kisses him, mouth hot and inexperienced and hungry, drawing a helpless moan like poison from Crowley's throat. “It's weakness.”  
“It’s the only strength.”

He was lost already, but the feeling of Castiel spilling slippery into his stroking hand sends him all the way, cresting like waves and crashing, heart hammering. Flying. For a moment, free. He presses his forehead against Castiel’s chest, against the answering thud there, and feels, briefly, the frayed edges of flight feathers brush his naked back, until the rhapsody subsides and he heaves in a breath and dismounts, rolling over onto the bedspread.

Castiel turns away from him then, and his chest echoes for a long moment until there’s a hand reaching back, feeling for Crowley’s hand and pulling it to drape across his waist. Crowley draws in closer. He plants a kiss on one shoulder, beside the arch of wing: it doesn’t matter why. Castiel sighs. Shifts. And Crowley runs a thumb along the slick cleft of Castiel’s arse; it dips easily in, so undone now, and he feels Castiel’s aftershock shudder, a little mewling moan. Paddling his fingers, teasing; he’s wet and soft and wide open still. Crowley just wants to bury his face down there, thrust his tongue inside, hot and slack – he doubts he’ll have the opportunity again, this angel in his bed, worn out and docile and pliant. _Or perhaps he will. He pushes the thought away._ Circling, he slips a finger in, adds a second, easily, fucking them gently in and out and Castiel chokes in a desperate breath, arches against the sheets. Broken. At least for a while. Crowley's dick twitches, interested already. He noses at Castiel’s neck. Breathes in that sublime nothing-scent of air and rain. "Do you think you can go again, darling? The world is burning. We may as well toast some marshmallows." The angel says nothing. Reaches back to grip the nape of his neck, blind, pulling him over into a slow, deep kiss. "Apology accepted." Crowley says, when they part. He feels Castiel's smile against his lips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The translations are ‘yes’ in Ancient Greek and, roughly, ‘tie me up and take your pleasure’ in really approximate, grammatically incorrect Enochian, but sue me, this is fanfic and it’s a tricky language to really say anything dirty in :p)

**Author's Note:**

> I have an idea for the full arc of this but I had to get at least this bit out before tomorrow's episode because I just ARGH MY BOY. Tags and rating obviously for what I've got planned for the next bits, if it's worth carrying on with. Figured after what he's caused and witnessed, Castiel should be super-contrite and wanting to make amends...


End file.
